


Wait

by attackofthemutantcheesecake



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:32:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackofthemutantcheesecake/pseuds/attackofthemutantcheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from the dead. Mycroft comes back to a home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before the release of Series 3 and I left it in my folders for a while then rediscovered it a few days ago. Tell me what you think and what tags I should add (I suck at thinking of tags) :D

He saw the light from a block away, never turned on unless he was at the house. For a time some years past, the yellowish glow would welcome him as the nondescript black car glided closer to the two storey brownstone, but that was then. Wasn’t it?  
  
  
 _“He’s doing what?”_  
  
 _“It was his plan and I did everything I could to make sure no more people were dead, no more people are going to end up dead, than there needs to be.”_  
  
  
He glanced sharply at Anthea whose usual bland expression was pointed toward her Blackberry. She seemed oblivious to his scrutiny and his discomfort- even with the carpeting, the sound of his brolly tapping against the car floor was audible- perfectly content tying up loose ends from the few meetings he’d had to cancel for the day. Some dignitaries needed more placating than most but his excuse was sound, at least for him.  
  
Sherlock decided to come home that afternoon.  
  
  
 _“Why won’t you stop him then? I’m sure you have your own private army that can take care of this in a pinch.”_  
  
 _“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hardly the size of an army.”_  
  
  
Of course he had to be there to smooth over any trouble, but he mistakenly assumed that it would only take some short hours. Any chances of making his late afternoon appointment at the Diogenes disappeared when John’s fist made contact with Sherlock’s face, his dinner reservation along with it when Lestrade arrived, bounded up the steps, and tipped a black eye into a broken nose.  
  
He and Anthea settled on the sofa to take care of some business, along with securing Sherlock’s temporary flat, while the shouting match began. The bickering over being let back into 221B, which he could have resolved in three seconds because no, John was not going to do that tonight, tacked on another hour to the merry occasion when Mrs. Hudson came to see what was happening and kicked up a fuss of her own.  
  
The most difficult part was ignoring the laser focus on him. Despite the on-going ruckus, it was a constant heavy presence. Through years of discipline he managed to supress the ugly flush that wanted to crawl up through the starched collar of his shirt. He wouldn’t want to steal Sherlock’s thunder this night.  
  
  
 _“I can feel where this is going, Mycroft, and I don’t like it at all.”_  
  
 _“You are under the impression that your feelings about the matter are going to change anything. They are not.”_  
  
  
Mycroft just strangled the urge to rub at his arms, goosebumps rising at the recollection of the unwavering stare Lestrade fixed on him through the afternoon and early evening. It was vastly different from the cool greetings and one-word answers he was used to getting, and no doubt was it because of Sherlock’s untimely return. He’d hoped to have some time to talk with John at the very least, but the curt call came at three in the morning and preparations to transport his brother away from a hell hole in Taiwan diverted most of his attention.  
  
“Sir.”  
  
The soft intonation alerted him to their arrival. He stepped out of the car and shut his eyes briefly against the light from his kitchen window, heavily frosted and secretly bulletproof but not enough to completely obscure the dark shape moving between his breakfast nook and the stove. Only few people had a high enough security clearance to be let into his home and only one whose entrance didn’t warrant a direct text alert to his phone.  
  
“Did I somehow miss my own assassination, or has my brother finally exasperated me enough that I expired of an aneurysm en route?” he murmured when Anthea tap-tap-tapped her way to his side.  
  
  
 _“Goddammit, you bastard!”_  
  
 _“If Moriarty was fooled into believing that I did not care for my brother, then this is nothing.”_  
  
  
A familiar moderately priced black coat was hung up on the rack next to the door, similar moderately priced black shoes shucked off far enough that no one would trip on them coming in. Two canvas duffle bags sat on the base of the stairs with an empty black case he knew was used to carry a polished cherry wood knife case.  
  
“Should I have the bags brought up?” Anthea murmured behind him while he stared, never dumbly, at the collection of things in his foyer he never thought he’d see again.  
  
He waved her off and went to the kitchen.  
  
Lestrade was squatting in front of the open oven door, poking at the packets of browning banana leaves on the tray. Diced vegetables were sorted neatly on the chopping board at the counter, used utensils stacked in the sink, and a bottle of wine in an ice bucket already on the breakfast nook.  
  
“I don’t recall having any of these in my refrigerator before I left this morning,” Mycroft’s lips quirked up as he stepped in.  
  
“I went shopping after leaving Baker Street,” Lestrade stayed down for a few more seconds, flipping and rearranging until everything was to his liking.  
  
  
 _“I won’t… I am aware that if I did, I would be asking too much of you.”_  
  
 _“What is it?”_  
  
 _“Will you wait until this has all been resolved? For me?”_  
  
  
It was wine flavoured and slightly uncomfortable, leaning over full plates and glasses on the table to reach. They parted reluctantly, Mycroft eyeing where Lestrade licked the taste of them from his bottom lip, and that kept them from their food for a few more moments.  
  
“Enough,” Lestrade chuckled, the word hanging in the air between them, and firm hands were pushing him down on his seat. “There’s time for everything later.”  
  
Something must have shown on his face because he was treated to another lingering kiss, fingertips trailing at the edge of collar and skin.  
  
“Later?” he breathed back.  
  
  
 _“Yes.”_  
  
  
“Yes.”


End file.
